Two days afterwards they were on their way home. Travelling is not such a very fatiguing process after all. The ladies, the baby and the maid had a compartment of the sleeping car to themselves and journeyed comfortably enough. They arrived safely at their hotel in the Rue de la Paix, and then Hephzibah Wallis broke down. Tired as she was herself, Georgie Haggard nursed her like a sister; all night long she sat by the girl's bedside and watched the movements of the pale lips, which seemed to be eternally attempting to articulate, but though the lips moved ceaselessly no sound came from them. The maid's condition alarmed Mrs. Haggard; there was evidently something more than mere fatigue; great beads of perspiration stood on the forehead, the hands were cold as ice and seemed to pick irritably and aimlessly at the coverlid. Gradually the mutterings of the sick girl became louder. Georgie attempted to rouse her, but in vain; she placed her ear to her moving lips. "It's no use, Maurice, you'll get nothing out of me." This was all she heard, and it was evident to her mind that in her delirium Hephzibah was holding an imaginary conversation with her faithless lover. All through the long weary night Georgie Haggard continued her watch by the bedside, moistening the girl's lips with water and wetting her burning forehead with Eau de Cologne. In the next room Lucy Warrender slept peacefully, and ever and anon her cousin would enter to take an anxious glance at the sleeping infant. The maternal instinct, which had so strangely remained dormant in the child's real mother, was abnormally developed, as we have said, in Georgie Haggard. At dawn, as Mrs. Haggard turned down the gas and admitted a little of the cold, cruel, grey light of early morning, she became thoroughly alarmed at the appearance of her patient; still the ever-restless fingers continued to search for the invisible crumbs, but they were colder now, and the finger tips were almost blue. Georgie hurriedly rang the bell. After some time a half-dressed chambermaid appeared. A messenger was dispatched in haste to summon a doctor. Lucy Warrender, very much against the grain, had left her couch and, head and shoulders muffled in a shawl, stood gazing at the dying woman with contracted brow. It was evident to both girls that a terrible change had come over Hephzibah Wallis; the lips no longer moved, but were strained tightly over the teeth, which were painfully apparent; while the breathing, which though rapid had previously been tranquil, was now harsh, extremely loud and often interrupted. And now a doctor hurriedly entered the room. He was a dapper little Frenchman and had arrived in evident haste. Bowing to the ladies, he gave a perceptible start when he perceived the appearance of his patient. Taking his watch from his fob he felt the poor girl's pulse. Then he shook his head ominously. Placing a stethoscope over the region of the heart, he listened for a few seconds.